


May the Force Be With You

by madasthesea



Series: In a galaxy far, far away [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, BAMF Peter Parker, Gen, Humor, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Tony Stark Has A Heart, death of a background character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea
Summary: The ship reverting from hyperspeed made Peter nearly fall out of his handstand.“Master?” He called to the cockpit, his eyes still blindfolded. They weren’t supposed to reach their destination for several hours yet.“Feet off the floor, Padawan,” Tony replied. He didn’t sound alarmed, and the Force was a quiet, if slightly queasy pool of light, as it always was in space, so Peter let himself relax a little bit, rebalancing himself on his palms.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: In a galaxy far, far away [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389424
Comments: 19
Kudos: 327





	May the Force Be With You

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Star Wars Day and May the Fourth Be With You!

The ship reverting from hyperspeed made Peter nearly fall out of his handstand.

“Master?” He called to the cockpit, his eyes still blindfolded. They weren’t supposed to reach their destination for several hours yet.

“Feet off the floor, Padawan,” Tony replied. He didn’t sound alarmed, and the Force was a quiet, if slightly queasy pool of light, as it always was in space, so Peter let himself relax a little bit, rebalancing himself on his palms.

“They are,” Peter protested. “Just as they have been for the last thirty minutes.”

“If you can’t take the punishment, don’t do the crime,” Tony said, his voice coming from the doorway. Peter could picture him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his smirk practically tangible in the Force. An imagine transferred clearly across their bond of a fluffy baby flitterbat, sleeping upside down.

Peter scowled, both at the accusation and the comparison, which made Tony give an undignified snort.

“I would hardly label what I did a crime,” Peter gritted out, shifting his weight. A half hour was a long time to hold a handstand, even for a Jedi.

“You called me old.”

“The word old never came out of my mouth.” Tony grabbed his ankle as he wobbled.

“You’re right, you said, and I quote—” Tony put on a high falsetto voice that was clearly meant to be a mimicry of Peter’s voice— “‘Don’t worry, Master, you’re in good shape for a man of your age.’”

“Which is a compliment,” Peter interjected.

“Your diplomatic skills leave something to be desired,” Tony sighed. “But you’ve served your time. Down you come.”

Peter held back any remarks of _about time_ and gratefully flipped onto his feet, shaking his arms out before reaching up and tugging the blindfold off. He blinked at Tony for a second.

“There you are,” Tony said, smiling a little. “Now, aren’t you going to ask why we’ve stopped?”

“Only since you so clearly want me to, Master.” Peter followed Tony into the small bridge, collapsing gracefully into the co-pilot’s chair. “Why have we stopped at—“ He checked the nav computer— “Stewjon?”

“Got a call from the Council. They’re requesting help with a local dispute and we were closest.”

Peter nodded dutifully, already mourning the astrocartography exam he was going to miss. Master Sibwarra always made the make-up exams much harder than the original.

“Relax,” Tony admonished gently. “It’s our duty, much more than exams are.”

“Yes, Master,” Peter responded. In the first few months of his apprenticeship with Tony, that would have stung, but he’d learned to take the compliments and instructions with the same level of appreciation. “I know.”

“Besides, you could pass that class in your sleep.” And even Peter had to admit, that soothed like liniment on sore muscles. “And it just so happens,” Tony continued, leaving Peter to follow his train of thought, “that I have an acquaintance with a diner in the capital.” He cast a sideways glance at Peter. “And an apprentice with a bottomless pit for a stomach.”

Peter perked up a little bit at the prospect of a good, greasy meal. The refectory at the Temple served only the healthiest of fare, with the occasional fruit for dessert.

Tony smiled, probably sensing Peter’s lifting spirits. “I’ll have a ‘thank you, Master,’ if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Thank you, Master,” Peter said, and Tony’s eyebrow twitched upward in surprise at the sincerity.

They were received with a level of ceremony that was bordering on absurd, but they endured it with the grace of trained diplomats. They were shown to an airy chamber where two farmers were bickering. One was accusing the other of poisoning his crop while the other spouted vitriol.

Tony and Peter exchanged a look.

“Gentlemen,” Tony called, stepping forward. Both quieted and looked Tony over, their eyes widening as they saw the lightsaber hanging on his belt. “I think this can be resolved fairly easily, so long as we all cooperate.”

They both nodded. They sat down at a long table in the center of the room, Tony at the head of it and Peter at his right hand.

“Now,” Tony said calmly, his voice clear in the quiet chamber. He turned to the accused man, who was wringing his hands under the table. “Answer me honestly. Did you poison the fruit?”

The man blanched; glanced down at Tony’s hip where the ‘saber hung. “M-Master Jedi,” he said weakly.

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he admitted in a rush of breath. “Yes, I did.”

Chaos descended. Leaving them to it, Tony looked over at Peter. An image of a bantha burger floated across their bond, making Peter’s mouth water. Peter responded with an image of fried crezzils, golden and crispy, and nearly felt Tony’s sigh of longing. On the surface, they both maintained the mien of a stoic Jedi.

After a few more moments of uproarious arguing, Tony called order again, and quickly put Peter in charge of negotiating terms of reparation. The situation was so straightforward that even Peter—who was well aware that diplomatics were his worst area—managed it with ease and only the occasional need for back-up from Tony. They were then honored with an interminable tea ceremony (they both preferred caff, anyway) before they were finally free to find lunch.

Tony led the way through the fragrant merchant district, lined with shops and stalls selling a wide array of produce and handcrafts. Peter trotted along after him, looking this way and that, trying to take it all in.

“Iko-re does the best ixlatl cake in the parsec,” Tony said as they walked. Peter’s stomach rumbled at the thought—if sweets were a delicacy, ixlatl was the crown jewel. Ben had given him a bar of it for his twelfth lifeday and Peter had savored every creamy, sugary piece, shamelessly licking the melted remains off his fingers.

Just as they were passing through the most crowded part of the city so far—a square lined with carts and bins overflowing produce—there was a shout, followed be the unmistakable sound of a blaster firing.

More screams followed and people started running, scrambling over one another to get out of open space.

The Force was instantly taut with panic and fear. Tony and Peter snapped to attention, both of their hands going toward their ‘saber hilts.

Tony charged forward, pushing against the crowd. Peter, glancing upwards at the buildings around them, leapt up and grabbed a lamp sconce, hanging from it for a moment to see what was happening. Ahead, in a clearing of people, lay a middle-aged man, his eyes open and blank. A woman was crying over his body. And there, even further in the distance, two men were shoving people out of their way as they fled.

“ _Master_ ,” Peter yelled, the loss of life ringing like a church bell in the Force, pounding in time with Peter’s frantic heartbeat.

“Go!” Tony answered without needing an explanation.

Calling on the Force, Peter went, jumping forward from lamp post to cart-top to balcony, sailing above the crowd instead of pushing his way through. He kept his eyes fixed on the murderers as he went.

As soon as he was through the square, he dropped to the cobblestone street, sprinting at full speed. He could feel Tony nearby, pursuing as well.

The men glanced behind them and their fear cut through the Force, sharp and acrid, when they realized they had Jedi on their tail. They veered down a side-alley. 

Peter summoned his ‘sabers to his hands, igniting them in a flare of blue light, the crystals humming in harmonized approval as he took chase. He hurled around the corner, springing off the alley wall with one foot so he didn’t have to slow down, only to immediately inhale a lungful of a foreign substance, making his throat burn. Coughing, he felt Tony’s concern echo through the Force as his master passed him.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, picking up his pace. The fire in his lungs cleared after a moment. Thinking little of it, Peter darted forward, ‘sabers at the ready.

The men veered into another street; this one narrower than the main road, with little stalls selling jewelry and linens. The shopkeepers ducked behind their wooden carts as they saw Peter following, closing the distance.

He let a tiny smirk curve the corner of his mouth. The Force coiled inside him like a spring ready to be sprung—Peter was nearly lightheaded with the power pooling in his veins. He prepared to leap.

He blinked awake to Tony leaning over him, his expression set in studied calm.

He looked around at the detritus around him and realized he’s crashed directly into one of the vendors’ carts, smashing it and its wares. Peter craned his head to peer further down the alley and saw the men’s backs disappearing.

“Master,” Peter panted. “ _Go_.”

“Hush,” Tony snapped, trapping Peter’s face in his hands and peering at him intently. “You just fainted, Padawan.”

“They’re getting away,” Peter protested, trying to sit up more but he was hit with a wave of dizziness. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Stay awake.” Tony’s thumb pulled Peter’s eyelid up, which was good because it suddenly felt like an Aurodium coin had been placed on it, like the Feorians do before burial.

Peter slumped further, all energy seemingly drained from his body. He didn’t even remember passing out. He remembered chasing the men, then waking up, as if watching a poorly transmitted hologram with gaps in the recording.

“Peter.” Tony’s voice was firm and laced with power that Peter had little choice but to obey. “ _Stay awake_.”

Peter wanted to protest that he was trying, even if there was no such thing as ‘try.’ Obedient to his Master’s command, he forced his eyes open again, barely managing to focus on Tony’s face, the lines around his mouth creasing as he frowned.

“Master,” Peter slurred, and then he knew nothing but darkness.

He woke up on fire. Burning in every inch of him, every inch of his crude matter, going so deep as to set the Force alight, the core of him that was meant to be untouchable.

He sucked in a breath but it only fanned the flames.

A scream tore from his throat, try as he might to hold it back. Tears gathered in his eyes and fell, blessedly cool on his skin, but the shame of it welled in his chest, scorching in his veins until there was nothing but heat and pain.

“Padawan.”

A lifeline, a reprieve: like a sip of cold, spring water after a month under Tatooine’s suns. Peter stilled his unconscious thrashing.

“Peter,” the voice said again. “Calm yourself.”

A hand, so cool in comparison to his own blazing skin it almost hurt, brushed away the tears still clinging to his cheek.

“That’s it. The Force, Padawan. Find the Force.”

The Force? The Force was screaming from the top of a pyre.

But that wasn’t right. The Force was always placid, always tranquil. Calmer and cooler than the river in the Room of a Thousand Fountains when his peers convinced him to join them for an illicit swim.

“Breathe out the pain,” came the gentle command. A hand covered his forehead and the hurt was winnowed from him like flame into the vacuum of space.

Peter exhaled a sob, but it must have been close enough because the meditation continued.

“Breathe in the Force.”

The Force. Peter imagined himself submerging in the Light, in the inextinguishable plenum of existence. The thrill of a ‘saber duel, the vibrant peace of a buzzing forest. His Master’s warm hand on his shoulder.

“There we go. Breathe out the—”

“Master.” 

“Right here, Peter,” Tony assured. He tugged so lightly on Peter’s braid that he almost didn’t feel it.

“I’m sorry,” Peter gasped. For screaming, he wanted to elaborate. For crying. For wanting Tony to hold him while he trembled in agony.

Tony made a shushing noise, softer and warmer and more lovely than anything Peter had ever heard. “You’ve done nothing to apologize for, little one. Just breathe.”

Peter reached out blindly, wanting some comfort, even if a Jedi should be above that.

A foreign hand caught his, and it occurred to him for the first time that there were others there, bustling around him. For the first time, he recognized the chemical stink of a healers.

His hand was passed to another, and this one was familiar, calloused from years of ‘saber practice, engulfing Peter’s hand entirely.

“Master,” he breathed again, hoping that Tony could hear what he was trying to say through their bond. What he wouldn’t say out loud.

“Yes,” Tony sighed, pressing his thumb against the pulse in Peter’s wrist. “I know.”

Another wave of pain crested over him.

“Sleep, Padawan. It’s all right.”

There was enough Force-compulsion in the simple order that Peter couldn’t have disobeyed even if he wanted to.

Peter felt sluggish when he woke and he wrinkled his nose in annoyance at the dizziness clinging to him.

“There’s my poorly tempered, Padawan,” Tony’s amused voice said. Peter groaned in response. “Ah, yes. I’ve been missing that acerbic wit, young one.”

Forcing down a smile, Peter opened his eyes to give a rather pathetic looking glare to his Master, who was sitting at his bedside looking almost embarrassingly fond.

“There you are.” Tony smiled more freely than any other Jedi Master Peter had met, but only when looking at Peter, who was always an eager recipient.

“Did you get them?” Peter asked when his mind was clear enough to form the question.

The smile dropped, but a bit of begrudging humor lingered in Tony’s eyes. “You are intractable,” he reproached. “You’ve been in the healer’s care for three days. Don’t you care to hear about that?”

“No,” Peter answered honestly. He wanted to forget about it, in fact, humiliation creeping up his spine and making him pout before he could catch himself. What a terrible Jedi he must be, to be taken by surprise in such a way as to inhale a toxin, and then scream and cry like a crecheling having a tantrum while dealing with the consequences.

Tony reached forward suddenly and tugged sharply on Peter’s ear. “Enough,” he warned, his voice stern. Peter stilled, realized that perhaps his mental shields had not been tight enough to indulge in such self-recriminating thoughts.

He looked up at Tony in mute apology.

“No, I did not ‘get them,’” Tony said after a long moment, and Peter figured the subject change was akin to forgiveness. “I, for some reason that is increasingly baffling to me, prioritized the health of my young charge, who had collapsed like a swooning maiden from a holo’ drama.”

Peter scowled deeply at his Master, but Tony only raised a challenging eyebrow and Peter backed down.

“Besides,” Tony continued. “They got in a speeder bike. I couldn’t have caught up even if I had pursued.”

“Oh,” Peter said, slightly mollified. There was silence for a long moment as Peter thought of the man they had killed. Tony’s mouth turned downward and he patted the back of Peter’s hand. Then they released their sorrow together.

“You owe me ixlatl cake,” Peter finally said, eager to change the melancholy mood of the room.

“Do I?” Tony said, his amusement glittering in the Force. Peter relished it. “Very well. You will get your ixlatl cake, so long as you beat me in a quarterstaff duel.”

Peter sighed, longsuffering, knowing that that was not so much a suggestion as a command. HIs quarterstaff technique was terrible and Tony knew it. He certainly would not be winning himself any cake. But Tony would probably give it to him anyway.

“Yes, Master.”

**Author's Note:**

> ixlatl is chocolate, because it isn't Star Wars if there aren't unnecessarily confusing words for random things :).


End file.
